


Airs and Graces

by Kitsune_Heart



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Blanket Permission, Breathplay, F/M, Gillplay, Podfic Welcome, Troll Gills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsune_Heart/pseuds/Kitsune_Heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seadwellers are, in essence, fish creatures. While they can live on land, their mouths are pretty much only good for eating. Even talking involves some gill work. It’s part of why the Amporas have such wweird vways of speaking. So breathing is most definitely, exclusively the work of their gills. And, right now, Cronus holds in his hands the kinkiest sex toy on all Alternia and Beforus. Talk about power-play: a fancy little corset to hold the very breath of privileged sea dwellers back with a single ribbon.</p><p>“So,” you drawl in a manner that makes you wish for a martini, just for the full visual effect, “can I convince you t—”</p><p>“Holy shit, yes,” Cronus blurts out, and then turns such a fantastic shade of violet that you have to laugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Airs and Graces

So, you thought this entire dating-a-troll thing would be hella kin-kay. I mean, the dude had a giant tentacle penis. Like,  giant.  You know that the few terabytes of ram that had made it through to your end of civilization are nothing to judge every human man by, but Ampora is blessed with enough schlong to cause balance issues. Or he should have them, but Cronus is poised and calm and careful. And especially oh-so-careful with  you  at all times.

Which is pretty boring.

Like, granted, you spend half your mornings walking with bowed legs. And the scarf is no longer a fashion choice, but a necessity of propriety. But for all the tight muscle, sharp teeth, and razor claws, Cronus holds you like a dandelion in a sandstorm. The guy worships you with his every breath, and all you want is to scream so loud you lose your voice. You’re not  dissatisfied , but you expected… something.

So you may...avail yourself of an Alternian concupiscent drama one evening. The little Vantas just leaves them lying around, after all. And, in the midst of dripping blood and knocked-out teeth, the uppity lowblood actor manages to get his hands around the neck of his sea dweller partner.

No. Not exactly around the neck. On the side of the sea dweller’s neck. His claws dig in, piercing the thin gills, and the sea dweller howls and spills before the bucket gets anywhere near his bulge.

You’re following pretty soon after.

And holy shit. Holy shit. You have some shopping to do.

* * *

Two days later—thank you Prime shipping—you are waiting in your house, having just texted Cronus in a most appropriately flirty manner.

TG: I’m bored

Hey. It works. Because Cronus gives a single knock at your front door before letting himself in, his head cocked in just that certain way he gets when he knows he’s getting some.

“Hey, Kitten,” he says in his low “I bet this is sexy” growl. It’s about 90% sexy and 10% dorky as hell, but the smile you give him this time is entirely for the former attribute.

You crook your finger at him, drawing the compliant sea dweller to where you sprawl on the couch. You don’t say a word as you point to the one empty seat on the wide cushions, and he sits, raising a brow. You’re usually not this coy. Not so silent. Also, not this slow to begin. Most times, you’re waiting at the door and he doesn’t even have time to lock up before you’re making your move. The novelty has his attention.

Oh, if he only knew….

“I got you a present,” you say, gesturing at the coffee table, where the opened package awaits, the cardboard lid half popped open.

Cronus looks at it, then to you, pouting. “You opened my present?”

You snort and give him a little kick. “Look,” you demand, just short of whining. Even waiting for him to come over after the package arrived was difficult. Now you’re trying to be calm, worried you’ll spook him, but...well, you’re gonna need to soak these panties down before they hit the wash.

He finally complies and you lick your lips as he leans over, pushing the flaps aside and taking your new favorite thing out of the box.

Af first glance, it’s a corset. One for the tiniest waist imaginable, with a good million yards of violet lace at top and bottom and a ribbon bow at the back.

But the inside of it isn’t fabric and boning, but a malleable black plastic. Tough, but form-fitting.

Anyone who isn’t in the know would have thought a stuffed animal was about to get freaky, but Cronus knows. His eyes widen and his fins flare forward. Forward, that’s good. Back is fear. Forward is challenge and interest. And Cronus isn’t taking his eyes off his new gill-block.

Seadwellers are, in essence, fish creatures. While they can live on land, their mouths are pretty much only good for eating. Even talking involves some gill work. It’s part of why the Amporas have such wweird vways of speaking. So breathing is most definitely, exclusively the work of their gills. And, right now, Cronus holds in his hands the kinkiest sex toy on all Alternia and Beforus. Talk about power-play: a fancy little corset to hold the very breath of privileged sea dwellers back with a single ribbon.

“So,” you drawl in a manner that makes you wish for a martini, just for the full visual effect, “can I convince you t—”

“Holy shit, yes,” Cronus blurts out, and then turns such a fantastic shade of violet that you have to laugh.

“Get over here,” you say, parting your legs, which makes his fins flick once more, in spite of the continued presence of your skirt. He complies, scooting between them and responding to your open palm by laying the gill-block in your fingers.

“Shirt off,” you say, serene.

He seems to have a little trouble recalling how hands work. And how shirts work. Because it’s a good fifteen second struggle before Cronus has his chest bare, though you count it as worth the wait. His gills flicker with each breath, deep, dark purple at the tips. You little bit of research told you there was a scary number of blood vessels there, and a fascinating number of nerve endings. More, in fact, than in a sea dweller’s actual bulge.

Which is why Cronus moans like Paradox Space’s cheapest whore when you trace your fingers along a gill-slit, the pressure barely enough to move the thin flesh.

“Roxy, holy...holy shit, vwhere did you—”

“Porn,” you chirp, proud. You gently pinching a gill, this time applying enough force for a grip that sends Cronus looming over you with a single tug. If this relationship was a bit darker in hue, he’d probably snarl and lash out, but he just crumples before your touch.

He’s so proud, and so very, very pathetic. You place a lingering kiss on his gills, and you’re surprised the guy doesn’t cream his pants.

“Roxy, damn, please,” Cronus says, and you smile. You hadn’t even thought to bring up begging for this session, but he’s made the jump all on his own.

In the water, maybe there’d be a bit of a texture issue with the gills, but here on dry land, it’s like any other bit of his skin under your curious tongue. You lick along the length of a gill, fascinated by the tiny bumps and the fluttering movements of your lover’s breaths. You lick back the other way, this time beneath the gill cover, where the texture has turned rough, almost like stubble, from the filaments. It’s fascinating.

Cronus has his hands on you, on your skin, under your shirt, but it’s really not all that interesting, compared to what you’re doing to him, up until he pushes your bra up and flicks his thumbs over your nipples. It shocks you, and you want to shock right back for catching you off guard, so you give his gills the smallest of nips.

Cronus bucks into you, gasping, and now you can feel his bulge pressed between your bodies. It’s fully unsheathed in his pants, writhing in anticipation, and you know how uncomfortable that is for him, all cramped in those pants. So it’s pure kindness on your part to nip his gills again and growl “take off those fucking pants.”

Cronus nods and performs impressive acrobatics as he somehow manages to keep his gills near your exploring mouth and at least one hand on your breasts as he strips down. If there were boxers involved, they’d be glued to his pants with bulge-slick, because Cronus’s bulge is wet and writhing between you. You swear, the tentacle-dick has a mind of its own, and probably a muscle memory, because it is prodding between your legs, seeking entrance, despite your continued total ownership of clothes. Not that you hadn’t fucked with a skirt on before, of course.

You put your hand to Cronus’s chest and push back, getting just enough room between you to get a good look along his body. He’s shaking and jerking his hips forward in small fractions of an inch, still seeking out the warmth between your legs. He gives you the most soulful eyes. Honestly, you’re surprised his lower lip doesn’t go all a-tremble.

“Still want this?” You ask, holding up the gill-block and raising a brow.

You swear, his bulge pulses out an extra fluid ounce of slick. “Um...yeah,” he says, quiet. He can’t stop looking at it.

You untie the bow and hold the corset open, waiting for his move.

Cronus only hesitates a moment before realizing that the final move is being left to him. When he understands, he comes forward quickly enough. Not leaping into the gill-block, but wasting no time, pressing in until he meets resistance.

It’s a little difficult lacing the gill-block up on the back of Cronus’s neck, where you have to work by touch, but you are not going to tell your lover to turn around. Not when you can look into his eyes and see every little flicker and dilation that comes with each new row laced. You put the ribbon through loosely, more keeping it from falling off than putting any pressure on your lover’s neck. It’s some minutes before you’ve reached the final holes, and in all that time Cronus’s bulge has not stopped its little dance on your thighs and under your skirt. It’s reaching out, just short of entering you, just close enough to brush your skin and make your fingers fumble the ribbon.

But then you’ve threaded the final hole and you take both ends of the ribbon in one hand. Your wrist moves in a slow circle, twisting the extra slack out a fraction at a time, until the gill-block is pressed up against Cronus’s neck, just a millimeter of space between it and his skin.

“So...you gonna make any use of that bulge tonight, or is this  all  about you?” you ask, lips quirking.

It is all the permission Cronus needs. He leans towards you.

You do not move your hands in the slightest.

The last slack goes out of the ribbon, and the gill-block tightens on Cronus’s neck just as he gets the first inch of his bulge past your panties. You can barely feel that pointy tip inside before he comes to a complete stop, instincts warning him of impending death via asphyxiation.

“Cronus,” you whine, twisting your hips and angling them down just enough to get another inch of his bulge inside you. “Come on. Don’t tease.”

It’s cruel, you know it is, but you smile as Cronus whines and tries to bring his hips forward while keeping his neck in one place. He gets another inch. Two, maybe. Just enough to remind you of the sharp sting that’s going to hit when he bottoms out. 

Then he backs off, releasing the pressure on his gills. He takes hard breaths, a hand rising to the gill-block and tugging it to get more air, faster, fresher. Half of what he could get in with things so tight must have been the last breath out, stale and unsatisfying.

“Do I need to go get a dildo or something?” you grouse.

Cronus shakes his head. He seems to steel himself for what he’s about to do. The seadweller takes several deep breaths, the little flush of violet in his cheeks fading away as he takes in the extra oxygen, and he suddenly surges forward.

It’s so fast that your hand can’t keep its position, and it’s dragged down with your lover as he buries his bulge in you. You yelp, but Cronus makes no sound beyond the wet slapping of his hips against yours. The entire setup and play has apparently affected you more than you’d thought, your insides alight as his bulge writhes within you, so much better than a stubborn, unyielding dick. He seeks out every bit of your insides, stroking every nerve equally, but for that bit right at near your pubis, which he rubs with every single movement, sending sparks up in your vision. You’re gasping and tilting your hips up to meet the onslaught, and, a minute later, when it ends and Cronus throws himself back, clawing at the gill-block, you whine.

His face is bright, almost terrifying purple. His tongue seems grayer than his skin. Your lover’s normally perfect coiffure is flat to his forehead, and he coughs with each breath, a hand to his throat.

“Come on, Cronus,” you whine, moving your free hand between your bodies to slide under your skirt, rubbing at yourself over your panties, in full view of your troll lover. “I’m almost there.”

The look he gives you says he doesn’t really believe it, but the next gasp you make must convince him. It better, because it is not an act. You thighs are spread wide and you pinch at your clit, so close to cumming that you could get there with just another minute on your own. But you’re not going to do that. Because that is Cronus’s job tonight.

“What are you waiting for?”

There’s a harsh snap in the words and Cronus jolts, wide eyed. He hesitates.

“Cronus,” you say, voice even. Utterly emotionless, in spite of how you can feel yourself on the verge of tipping over. Just getting his bulge back in you is going to do it, and knowing he’s panting, breathless to please you, oh, fuck, yes, you want it. “Fuck me,” you command, squeezing the ribbon in your fist.

Cronus makes a little “hrk” sound as most of his air is cut off. He hesitates only a moment longer. Then he is on you, in you, all of his bulge, all at once, no holding back as he fills you.

One final pinch on your clit and you’re shaking, clenching down on him, crying out his name.

Cronus’s movements are fast. Erratic. Uncoordinated. You get through the intense wave of your orgasm before you recall why that might be, and you feel a little rush of panic. Swiftly, you bring your hands up and hook your fingers into the sides of the corset, wrenching them apart and sending oxygen flooding over your lover’s desperate gills.

He takes in a painfully deep breath—you are the worst lover, you could have hurt him!—and then Cronus looms over you, slamming his bulge in even harder, one times, two, and then you can feel the flood of genetic material into you. It’s shocking, though not unknown, and you run your hands along his trembling back as he spills inside, his orgasm long and draining in so many different ways.

The physical strength drain proves most inconvenient, as Cronus’s arms tremble for a split-second before he collapses. You find yourself on the receiving end of some unplanned breath play before you can wriggle your way out from under your lover, letting his horned head rest on your stomach instead of your vital lungs.

The gill-block is still restricting his breath a little, and you remove it, tossing the toy to the floor. 

Perhaps you should have read up more on after-care before giving your lover his gift, because he is shaking, hands coming up to your hips, not holding you tight, but keeping a grip. Like he needs it. Your stomach twists with the old, familiar pity. About all you can do is run your fingers through his hair and give his horns little glancing brushes. You lean down to kiss a horn-tip, whisper in his ear, “You did so, so good, Cronus.”

He whines and nuzzles at your stomach, breaths slowing to normal, deep intakes and slow, contented exhales.

You don’t broach the subject of a second try right then, but the sun isn’t even up before Cronus has asked you where you got the toy. About the gross domestic product of an island nation later, he clicks the final checkout button, and you, amusedly, ask him where he intends to put it all.

Cronus looks at you and smirks.

You sigh. You walked into that one.


End file.
